


Baker Street Advent 2018

by OtakuElf



Series: Biological Clock [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent Calendar, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-06 02:50:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16823641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtakuElf/pseuds/OtakuElf
Summary: It's Christmas time for the inhabitants of Baker Street.  No one ever said things would be ordinary.





	1. December 1

The whump woke Siger. His bed was soft beneath him, warm - so he must have been sleeping for some time. At first he thought he must have dreamed the sound or feeling; he was not sure which. Silence rang - aside from the soft snuffling of his sisters in their cots, and Will in the crib. The silence was rendered inert by cries from outside in the street, then Siger realized that car alarms had been blaring all that time. How had he not heard them?

Sneezing, he could smell chemicals. Unfamiliar - not one of _Père’s_ experiments. Folding down the duvet, he slid his narrow feet into slippers placed exactly next to his bed and padded to the door to hold his hand next to the painted wood. No heat. 

Sleepy sounds came from behind as Ross and Miri called for Daddy and _Père_. Will was still asleep. He was visiting for the week so that Uncles Mycroft and Greg could visit Uncle Greg’s great Aunt Louise in France.

The great brass knob of the door twisted softly as Siger opened the door and peered around into the hallway, down the stairs. Flickering light. Fire. No heat yet, but that did not mean it was safe. His call of “Daddy? _Père_?” received no answer. Siger closed the door and turned to his sisters, looking like ghosts in their white nightgowns, the sheets on their cot pulled up around them.

“Siger?” Ross never said much, preferring to let her family infer what she wanted to konw.

“Emergency?” Miri asked, then, “Daddy and _Père_?”

“Do you remember the drill?” Siger asked them, “We will go out the window.”

Climbing onto the sill he lifted the heavy wooden sash and rolled the ladder down the side of the building. Rosalind first, then Miranda, his sisters carefully set their feet on the wooden rungs and began to climb down - just as they’d practiced. 

Siger climbed down and looked through the slatted walls of the crib into Will’s bright eyes. Will lifted his little arms to be picked up, and Siger complied without thought, dragging Will over the edge of the wooden crib. The warm, flannel-clad baby was heavy in his arms. Siger did not think he could hold Will and climb down the ladder. Will smacked baby lips at his cousin. “That is not helpful, Will,” Siger told him.

Repeating the process at the door revealed brighter, more flickering light - definitely a fire, and the beginning of hot, dry air moving up the staircase. Still holding his cousin, Siger closed the door and after a moment kicked the carpet up against the bottom of the doorway. Daddy had told him not to let the girls see him be afraid in an emergency. Daddy had said that panicking was for after the emergency was over.

“Will,” Siger said thoughtfully and carefully, “You’re going to have to go in your snug sack.”

Will did not like his snug sack. He kicked up what Daddy called an “unholy fuss” when Daddy tried to put him into it. “Nanananana,” Will babbled, then “no!”

Siger dragged the snug sack from under the crib. “Yes,” he said shortly and began to shove the holes over Will’s pajama clad legs.

His cousin starfished, which made it very difficult to get those limbs into the appropriate holes. “Will, please,” Siger’s voice trembled, for all that he was trying to keep it quiet and calm, “Please help me.”

Whatever Will noticed in Siger’s tone, he stopped fighting long enough for the boy to hoist the baby up and settle him on Siger’s back, tightening the straps, fastening them together. The baby was unwieldy, no matter how he was being held, and Siger was trying to move quickly. He thought that, perhaps, he felt the room getting hotter.

Struggling up to the sill with Will’s weight encumbering him, Siger slid one leg over and felt for the wooden rung. Standing on that, clinging to the painted sill, he cautiously slipped the other leg over until both feet stood on that single rung before starting slowly down one foot to the next bit of wood, then the second foot joining it. When they’d practiced, he and Daddy and Miri and Ross, Siger had scampered down the rope ladder. Daddy had said that. Siger liked the word, and he’d used it for weeks afterward. 

There would be no scampering with Will on his back. After he’d gotten below the window, Siger took a moment to call, “Miri? Ross?”

“Siger! Come down!” That was Miri. She didn’t sound captured. She hadn’t said the code word, so she and Ross were safe. That was good. Siger hated being kidnapped.

Siger focused on climbing down, trying not to think about Lambkin or the bees, or any of his other stuffed friends still on his bed, or his real violin on the dresser. He found himself sniffing, tears leaking out in spite of his best intentions. Perhaps if he’d dropped them out of the window? He couldn’t do that with his violin. No, he was saving Will. Will and Miri and Ross were more important that even his violin. 

“Oh, thank heaven!” Siger heard Grammy Hudson say from below, just as _“Bon travail, Siger!”_ fell from above. Siger risked a look upward to see his _Père’s_ curly head poked out of the window now quite far above him.

“ _Père_!” he called up, “ _êtes-vous en sécurité, Père_?” his voice trembling almost as much as his arms and legs now were.

“ _Je vais descendre dès que tu seras sorti de l'échelle. Ne t'inquiète pas._ ”

Siger nodded, more to himself, as _Père_ could not see him in this darkness. Will, he realized, was babbling. So long as the baby held still, Siger would be grateful.

He must be getting somewhere close to the end, mustn’t he? It was taking longer than he remembered. Siger was tiring.

“Siger! I’m here, just a few rungs more, sweet!” It was Daddy’s voice, and then Daddy’s strong arms lifting Siger and Will off of the rope ladder. “Good job, son,” Siger could hear the pride in his Daddy’s voice. “Let me help you with Will, okay?”

And the enormous weight that was his baby cousin was lifted as John Watson unbuckled the snug sack, and hefting Will onto his hip, wrapped the other arm around his boy. Siger gave it up at that, and leaning against his father’s chest began to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bon travail, Siger!” - Good Job, Siger!
> 
> “êtes-vous en sécurité, Père?” - Are you safe, father?
> 
> “Je vais descendre dès que tu seras sorti de l'échelle. - I will climb down the ladder when you are down. Do not worry.


	2. December 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And then...

Sherlock Holmes crunched across the pavement in front of 221 B. Black smudged the facade of what had been Speedy’s, the front window, red and white striped awning both gone. Dimmock and his team were processing the scene. The firetrucks had gone. The street was wet as though there’d been a thunderstorm, not London rain.

John was organizing the children and Mrs. Hudson into a vehicle - they’d called Anthea instead of Uber or a taxi. Stepping briskly up, the thin, dark haired man ducked under the caution tape. At least the front door had not been broken open by the firefighters, though there were dents and chips in the black paint. The knocker was more askew than normal. Mycroft would hate that. Sherlock had propped the door open for the emergency services before running up the stairs to the children’s room. 

“I’ll get the children. You take care of Mrs. Hudson!” those words echoing oddly, almost muffled by the sound of the fire, the sirens, the shouts outside. He’d ignored John’s shout of argument. 

When John wrote about his heart leaping into his mouth, Sherlock had scoffed. Remembering how he’d felt coming through the children’s bedroom door to find the room empty illustrated that sentiment all too well. Obviously he’d quickly ascertained their escape route. Peering over the sill, seeing Siger bravely, slowly, carefully moving down the emergency ladder - Guillame strapped to his back - he’d almost choked on the upwelling of pride.

First things first. Mrs. Hudson’s flat would have to be completely redone. He didn’t think there was structural damage to any of the house other than Speedy’s, but the smoke and water damage in the flat was considerable. Suitcase from the closet, he dragged damp, smoky undergarments from the dresser, adding what necessities and clothing he thought Mrs. Hudson would appreciate. A quick trip to the kitchen, and Sherlock retrieved an item from Mrs. Hudson's arsenal, tucking that in among the polyester. He knelt down and pulled the case containing her soothers from under the bed. The suitcase and case he stood in the front hall before climbing the seventeen steps to 221B.

More smoke and water damage. Black climbing the bannisters and wall where an offshoot of the fire had licked its way up. It was the only burn damage - accelerant? Holmes could not think how that had been distributed, since the major aspect of the fire was the car bomb that had struck Speedy’s front window.

Another suitcase, John’s oatmeal jumper, jeans, and collection of red pants. Enough for tomorrow and clothes shopping. Sherlock quickly sorted through his sock index, and acquired appropriate and matching garments, followed by comfortable flannel pajama bottoms and a soft, worn tee shirt. 

As he passed out of the bedroom, he surveyed the sitting area with regret. The books were in sad shape. Carefully he picked up John’s Mother’s E. Nesbit book and wrapped it in a somewhat dry towel before shoving it into the suitcase. Sentiment drove him to gather up Harry Watson’s offense of an afghan, knowing the children would mourn the loss.

Enough. He couldn’t take everything. The insurance adjusters would let them know what could be saved. The suitcase went down stairs to sit with Mrs. Hudson’s bags. 

Mounting the steps to the top floor he examined the least damaged room in the house - Sherlock assumed that 221C would be flooded completely. He pulled in the rope ladder, shut and fastened the window. One large backpack pulled out of the closet served to hold the most important of the plush - the soccer ball, violin, lambkin, the girls’ bears and flying horses, and Guillame’s plush umbrella. As an afterthought Sherlock shoved the soft plastic bees into the pockets of his tailored trousers, totally destroying the lines, stretching the fabric. He didn’t care. 

Clothing went into a suitcase from under Siger’s bed. The man worked efficiently and without thinking of what might have happened to the children if the fire had moved faster and further, and the children had not been drilled in how to use the ladder. 

Lastly, the man tucked the small violin case under his arm, heaved the backpack onto his shoulder, picked up the suitcase, and made his way downstairs. Mycroft’s driver met him at the bottom, relieving the detective of the bags and violin case, and taking them to join Mrs. Hudson’s and John’s and his suitcases in the trunk of yet another polished black vehicle. 

Stepping over to the sitting room windows, empty of glass and still dripping from the fire hoses, he picked up his sodden violin from the floor. The cannonade of water had knocked over the music stand and sent the instrument flying onto the carpet. He didn’t like to put the violin into the sodden wet velvet interior of its case. Best to just bring it with him, cradled carefully under his arm. A sticky lump of rozin joined the bees in his trouser pocket.

“Mr. Holmes,” Dimmock was standing in the doorway, “I’ll need a key to lock up.”

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock tossed the officer the ring of extra keys. “We’ll let you know where we’re staying. You’ll need us to sign the statements, correct?”

A nod - Dimmock was always wary around him, “If you would, sir.” For all their differences in the past, the man knew when to retreat into formality.

Sherlock nodded in turn, then walked past the investigator, down the stairs, and out into the car that held his family.


	3. December 3

John H. Watson sat in the back of one of Mycroft Holmes’s big black cars, maintaining an air of calm through, if not a will of iron, at least one of solid determination. Mrs. Hudson was staring out the window at what had been Speedy’s. She wasn’t weeping. She looked grim. They had called Mr. Chatterjee, who had gone home to his wife in Islington before the incident.

No one had been harmed. Well, not physically. A row of child seats faced them from the back facing seat - Siger, Miri, and Ross were watching their daddy with owl eyes, Will had cried for a bit after it was all over, but now slept the sleep of the ignorant innocent in his candy striped plush footies. 

Siger asked, “Daddy, was someone trying to hurt us again?”

John Watson thought bitterly that it was no life for a child to expect to be hurt before answering, “I don’t know, Siger. We’ll find out. And you know that your _Pere_ and I will do our best to keep you safe.”

The two adults and three children jumped when the driver slammed the boot. Will startled, then went back to snoring softly.

“Were will we go?” asked Miri cautiously.

Ross sniffled. “I want to go back to my cot.”

The street side door opened and his spouse climbed in to sit next to John. Sherlock’s pockets bulged oddly, and he passed the violin carefully to John before emptying out his pockets. “Here we are,” he passed the three children each a bee. 

What did one expect from such a man? John never knew what would happen next. “Miri was just asking where we were going,” he said quietly.

Sherlock gazed around the car, lingering on Mrs. Hudson still staring out the window, then said, “Why we’ll go to Uncle Mycroft’s. He as space for all of us, since he and your Uncle Lestrade are in France.”

“And,” John responded, “Does Uncle Mycroft know that we’re going to be taking over his house while he’s away?”

That earned him a grin - sometimes it was a good thing to be the straight man. “Of course, not, John. It’s the middle of the night. Mycroft is certain to be fast asleep. As we shall be soon, in nice, comfy beds at Holmes House.”

Miri and Ross clutched their bees tightly to their bosoms, but some of the tenseness went out of them. It was not long before they had fallen asleep. Siger was holding his bee, examining it carefully, as though committing each aspect of it to memory.

John turned to face his spouse and said quietly, “Siger asked if someone is trying to hurt us again.”

Reaching out, that strong, slender-fingered hand, Sherlock Holmes could just reach Siger’s feet - still wearing his slippers. “We don’t have enough data, Siger. We’ll examine the evidence, and find out who did it, and for what reason. I would say, however, that if they’d wanted to hurt us - our family - they would have gone about it some other way.”

“This was terribly inefficient?” Siger asked hopefully.

“Yes, my son, it was was terribly inefficient. Beyond amateur.” Sherlock loved the trusting face presented by his offspring.

“All right then,” Siger tucked his been under his arm and leaned back. “We will look for data in the morning.”

John leaned forward and spoke quietly, “Martha.”

The older, bird like woman turned and smiled tiredly, “I’m alright John. Don’t worry about me. It’s just,” her voice broke slightly, “It will be a lot of work to get it all squared away again.”

Then, stronger, she said, “I wish I had my frying pan so that I could teach those vandals a solid lesson!”

Sherlock leant his shoulder against John’s and smiled widely, “Just think of all of Mycroft’s fancy pans that you can experiment with, Hudders!”

“It isn’t the same,” she told him tartly. “I don’t plan on destroying your brother’s kitchen to suit you, Sherlock!”

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll find something for you to use, then,” he gave her a wink.

John interrupted, “You got Anthea to let Greg and Mycroft know about this, didn’t you?”

Sherlock sniffed. “I never tell Anthea anything. I’m sure she’s already notified the insurance auditor, the cleaning service, and Mycroft’s housekeeper - all the necessary tasks. We’ll just need to let Alice Brown know not to come to work in the morning. I suppose it’s a good thing that we don’t currently have an au pair.”

“Hmm,” John considered, “Better let Bert know anyway. Otherwise he’ll hear it on the news and worry.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Wisely, he said nothing. Too much sentiment, he thought as his hand sought out John’s, clasping them together on his trouser leg. They settled into silence as the dark car moved quietly under the London street lights toward Mycroft’s home.


	4. December 4

Anna met them at the door in a halo of golden light. She stooped, her strong arms catching up the baby from the car carrier. John, who had constant battles with the latches on child seats, wondered if he’d neglected to secure Will. No. No! If anything, he’d been hyper aware of the children’s safety. Will was a master escape artist, and if John had left a snap open, or a latch unclicked, he’d have been all over the car in a moment. The only reason the baby didn’t get out of his crib at night was that he liked having Siger lift him out in the morning. Anna must be magic. Like Mary Poppins, John thought, fighting a rising hysterical giggle.

Siger, Miri, and Ross surrounded Anna, rather like a bright elderly flower surrounded by busy chattering butterflies. It was the middle of the night - how had she gotten dressed and put in order so quickly? John was struck by a whirling sense of unreality.

“John?” Sherlock’s arm was warm, solid in his black Belstaff, as it wrapped around the doctor. Mrs. Hudson peered past them into the foyer, poking at the umbrellas standing in a brass container by the door.

“Um. Yeah. Where should we take the bags, Anna?” 

“Charles will take them up to your rooms,” Anna told him. “Children would you like some hot chocolate before going to your bedroom?”

That went over very well with Siger, Miranda, and Rosalind. “John and I will just put _Guillame_ in his crib, Anna. I expect it’s better for him to sleep with the other children tonight. Don’t forget to make some for us,” Sherlock intoned as he urged his doctor down the hall. Anna reluctantly handed the baby over before ushering the rest of the children back to the kitchen.

They stopped halfway down the hallway to the room that Siger, Miri, and Ross used when staying with their uncles. Sherlock looked back. Mrs. Hudson stood, lonely and lost by the front door. “Well, Mrs. Hudson, come along,” he told her briskly. 

She gave a little jump, then hurried after them down the hallway. “Mycroft’s house, now. Not what I imagined.”

“What? A huge marble palace filled with cake?” Sherlock said over his shoulder.

“Sherlock,” John cautioned low.

“More posh, anyway,” Mrs. Hudson commented dryly.

The backpack and suitcase stood next to a sturdy wooden bunk bed. Siger’s violin case lay upon a heavy maple dresser near the door. “Let’s get this little one to bed, shall we?” Sherlock led the way, trailed by John and Mrs. Hudson.  
It was after they’d settled the baby and turned on the monitor, that he herded them upstairs. “Mrs. Hudson,” he told them, swinging up her suitcase from the guest room, gesturing for John to take hold of the soothers, and flying across the hall to the master suite, “will stay in here.”

Mycroft’s and Greg’s bed was king-sized, clean cotton sheets (“guaranteed to be ice cold, Mrs. Hudson, Anna will have to get you a hot water bottle”), and covered with a goose down comforter.

“Oh, but don’t you and John want this room?” she protested.

“I really do not want either of us trying to sleep in a space where Mycroft and Lestrade engage in conjugal anything, Mrs. Hudson. Take the posh bed.” And sliding her suitcase onto an antique blanket chest, he dragged John and their own suitcase out of the room. 

“So we’ve got the guest bed then?” John’s small grin made up for the agony of relying on Mycroft for anything.

“It should be fairly comfortable,” Sherlock remarked.

John started, “How do you know that they…”

Sherlock stoppered that sentence with a long, thin hand across John’s lips. “Leave me some sanity, John Watson,” he said.

The chocolate, when they finally made it down to the kitchen, was marvelous. The children were half asleep as they struggled to finish mugs decorated with sprightly Christmas scenes. Thanking Anna for her care, John finished his own mug before their gathering of hostages to fortune and escorting them to bed.

It had been a strange and frightening night. All the more important to follow ritual to put them back on track. Sherlock took up a book and began to read, “Squire Trelawney, Dr Livesey, and the rest of these gentlemen having asked me to write down the whole particulars about Treasure Island, from the beginning to the end, keeping nothing back but the bearings of the island, and that only because there is still treasure not yet lifted, I take up my pen in the year of grace 17-, and go back to the time when my father kept the Admiral Benbow inn, and the brown old seaman, with the sabre cut, first took up his lodging under our roof.” 

John, stretched out across the bottom bunk at the feet of Miri and Ross, fought sleep. They were safe. They were together. The soft sound of Siger’s even breathing from above them told him his boy was nearly asleep. Miri and Ross did not make it even to the end of the first sentence, and Siger followed soon after.  
Closing the door on the darkened room, John reached for Sherlock. They were not prone to public displays of affection. Not between the two of them, in any case. “I don’t know what I would do without them, Sherlock,” he whispered.

“Let’s go to bed, John. We’ll work out what to do next in the morning.”

Up the wide and curving white stair case they checked on Mrs. Hudson, who was peacefully sleeping in the huge bed with her frying pan held tight to her chest. “That can’t be comfortable,” Sherlock said.

“I can’t believe you packed a frying pan,” John giggled as he followed his husband to their room across the hall.

Sherlock allowed a small smile to creep out. As long as John could laugh, things would be alright.


	5. December 5

Morning came slowly. Mrs Hudson, having enjoyed a soother before climbing up into the dark carved wood and luxuriant mattress of the bed, woke startled to complete darkness. Rolling over onto a frying pan did not make her mood any more pleasant. 

Still, she thought as she stretched carefully away from the frying pan, the bed was firm enough that she wasn’t aching. That was always a plus. She’d been meaning to buy a new mattress, and she supposed that now was certainly the time for it. The insurance money for the water damage should cover the cost, after all. Perhaps someone owed Sherlock a favor, and she could get a nice one cheaply.

At least her baby, her car, was not part of the awful events of the night. That nice young man, Dimmock, had made her check when she’d finished her statement. Martha Hudson was familiar with police procedure - more familiar than most, she knew. Imagine Mrs. Turner being woken up at the Lord’s own time in the morning to a car crashing into her building and exploding.

Martha would be able to dine out on the experience for weeks! Of course, was one more good story enough to make up for the annoyance of dealing with insurance and auditors and replacing her effects? And at Christmas time too!

Well, she thought sadly, John would probably not be putting the fairy lights up this year. He and Sherlock might even decide to stay here at Mycroft’s for the holiday. That would be depressing. Martha tried to imagine Sherlock’s face waking up to his brother’s household full of … well, Mycroft… at Christmas time.

Mary Carol, her sister, was in the states with her children this year. Anthony had been offered a transfer, with the company paying to move the entire family. Martha thought she might be able to afford to fly to Houston. She didn’t like to, though. Christmas was better here in England. Even without family.

Well. This was tedious. Best to get up and going. The suitcase was gone from its place on the blanket chest. Clean, folded clothing lay there instead. Bless Anna!

John Watson slept deeply, soundly, and came to awareness with the slow comfortable knowledge that Sherlock Holmes was wrapped tightly around him, snoring softly onto the top of his head. John could hear the children through the monitor, Siger was telling someone a story - they were probably playing with the enormous wooden pirate ship that had once belonged to Sherlock. Miri chimed in from time to time, while Ross’s distinctive and rarely heard voice created the sound effects. Will’s soft infant burbling, along with “Will, don’t eat the cannon!” from Miri added the last piece to finish the puzzle of contentment. Anna would have already given them breakfast. It was all good. Well, not all.

They were safe. Things were, if not actually good, then not horrible. He and Sherlock would find out who did this, and Mycroft and Greg would see that person put away for a long time. John Watson settled back into the embrace of his spouse and went back to sleep. 

Sherlock Holmes ran through the streets of London, hot on the trail of the next clue that would answer the burning question of Why. Why had someone crashed a car into Speedy’s? Surely Saint Nicholas did not have that many vehicles that he would waste one in an amateurish attempt to capture his and John’s attention. Therefore it must be another villain. The Krampus? Could a Krampus drive? They would find the answer when they arrived at the creature’s location - the British Museum. 

Siger smiled happily at his sisters and Will. The pirate ship just happened to be his favorite toy at Uncle Mycroft’s, but he was happy that they were caught up in the adventure and not in worrying about their home at Baker Street. He resolutely put the worry into the back of his own mind. Currently there was nothing that he could do about their flat. He was a child. There were things children could accomplish, and some they could not. Daddy and Pere would soon investigate the whole awful mess, and perhaps they would let Siger help! This past year they’d let him do some small things. 

Waking up at Uncle Mycroft’s and Uncle Greg’s was not particularly unusual. Siger had heard Miri and Ross whispering in the bunk below. They were happy, thankful, that Pere had brought their bears and their horses. It must be very nice to be so young. Siger could not really remember it. He was big enough now that he knew they could not go back to the flat until it was all fixed up.

Pere had saved Siger’s Real Violin. The first thing Siger did when getting up was to open the case and ensure that the Real Violin was unharmed as it rested in the velvet lining of the case. His stuffy, Violin, was all well and good, but Siger was a big boy now, and could play real music on the Real Violin. Maybe later today he’d practice, if it was alright with Anna.

Miri wondered if pirates had hot chocolate. Anna, in a fit of generosity, had allowed them to have hot chocolate for breakfast with their toast and jam. Miri believed that to be the best of all possible breakfasts, although Ross preferred sausages. Definitely, pirates had sausages. And gruel. She found the Sea Cook in the pile of piratical adventurers and placed him in the galley, balanced upon his peg leg. “I have sausages for all, hearties!” she told her nautical comrades. Ross’s parrot swooped into the galley squawking for a treat. 

Mycroft Holmes did not often “lie in”. This morning he had been on the mobile with Anthea before anyone else in this benighted and turbulent pile of stone was awake. Gregory, by now used to his partner typing in bed, stirred, patted Mycroft’s leg through the covers, and then turned over and went back to sleep. Time enough when he was truly awake to let him know the events of the early morning, and that Guillame was safe. And Siger, Miranda, Rosalind, Sherlock and John, of course.

For now, Mycroft was settling himself by going through the basic actions that Anthea had taken before notifying him of the crash and explosion. Satisfactory. Anthea was always satisfactory. 

Anna would be awake as well. His family was in good hands. And safe. Safer than he and Gregory. Mycroft had concerns about the French side of the family and their obsession with the late Luisa Lestrade’s estate. Fortunately, Gregory - and his sister, Dolores - had Mycroft Holmes to watch out for them. And Mycroft’s security detail to do the footwork necessary to keep them all alive and able to inherit their just due.

“Thank you, Anna,” Martha Hudson took the thin, bone china and sipped the lovely cup of English Breakfast. 

Mycroft Holmes’ housekeeper placed a dish of ripe, luscious smelling strawberries and cream in front of her guest, and sat down to her own late morning snack of strawberries. “You are welcome, Martha. Please let me know if you need anything while you are here. Please eat the strawberries. There are plenty, and they will spoil if we don’t finish them.”

Martha Hudson did not comment on actually ripe strawberries in December, but enjoyed another mouthful of really excellent tea. “You’re very good. You knew exactly how I take my tea!”

“Mr. Holmes is exacting. But I didn’t need to tell you that, did I?” Anna smiled and took a sip of her own strong, black coffee. “Did you and the younger Mr. Holmes, or perhaps Dr. Watson, discuss what to do next? You are all welcome to stay here, even after Mr. Holmes and Mr. Lestrade return.”

"I’ve learned it’s best to wait and see what wild adventures Sherlock will drag us all into. Because I certainly don’t think any of us can guess what will happen next. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to help - because with the chaos that surrounds Sherlock and John, there’s always something odd to be done.”

Anna smiled and nodded. They quietly enjoyed their sweet flavorful strawberries listening to the sounds of the children playing from the monitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who are not familiar with the Krampus, who has gotten major press this year (in my Pennsylvania Dutch home it's the Bellsnickle), here is information about December 5th, Krampusnacht.
> 
> http://historythings.com/krampusnacht-what-is-it-and-how-did-it-start/


	6. December 6

The mobile pinged. “Alice Brown! Thank you for calling back,” John Watson juggled the baby on one hip, receiving a platter of sandwiches from Anna with the other hand, and the mobile on his shoulder. “You’re done with your doctor’s appointment? Don’t go to Baker Street.

“Oh. You’re already there. Yes. It does look terrible. No, it wasn’t one of Sherlock’s experiments.

“Yes, the children are fine. They’re tearing up Uncle Mycroft’s house, aren’t you, Miri? Ross?

“Siger says, ‘hello’, and ‘ Please let Alice Brown know that we will fix the office for her.’

“Yes, he’s very thoughtful. Your cardigans? No, I haven’t heard from the adjuster yet. Oh. He’s there now. Yes. I promise we will replace your jumpers.

“Well, I have my bank card. No, we weren’t able to get much of our clothing when we evacuated. Or the files. We didn’t even try to get the stuff out of the safe.

“I think the safe is waterproof, isn’t it? The fire never got into the rest of the house, so it’s mostly water damage from the firefighters. Speedys? Well, Mr. Chatterjee’s insurance will have to cover that. Um. I don’t know if the shop has that kind of coverage.

“You’re what? Going to wait and speak to the adjuster? Alright. No, I have no idea how they got called in so quickly.” John began to laugh. “Yes, it must have been the Holmes magic.

“I appreciate your working your magic as well. Thank you. Let me know what we need to do on our end. No, working from home is entirely fine with me. I’m not certain how long we will be staying here. 

“No, actually, Sherlock thinks this whole thing has nothing to do with either of us. Unexpected, I know. He’s going to find out exactly who did it, and why. Though he says it’s mostly likely only a two. Tedious. Yes.

“Alright, Alice. Thank you for taking care of that. Goodbye.”

“Siger?” John nodded toward the mobile held uncomfortably between his shoulder and ear. 

“Yes, Daddy,” Siger dutifully retrieved the mobile and switched it off. At his father’s request he tucked it into his Daddy’s back pocket, then picked up the bowl of carrot sticks from the sink and placed it before his sisters on the kitchen island.

John looked at the smiling faces and took a deep breath. He hoped his spouse was not getting into trouble without him. Cheerfully, he told the children, “Eat up everyone. We have to go shopping for essentials after lunch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not British, nor do I have a comprehensive knowledge of insurance. If you notice something I've said amiss, please let me know.


End file.
